


Learning to Lead

by msfeuille



Series: Lessons Learned (the Laura Trevelyan series) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall Spoilers (hinted), F/M, M/M, Qunlat, ignores Sten and Alistair canon established in the comics, only uses video game canon, post-Adamant, pre-Winter Palace, qunari fangirl here, written before the release of Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msfeuille/pseuds/msfeuille
Summary: Laura Trevelyan leads the Inquisition, but ungraciously and without enjoyment. She struggles to make friends with her allies, and she can't work out how to flirt with her Commander to save her life.And then the Queen Warden of Ferelden, charismatic and successful, throws her into a plan to ally with the Qunari. Laura is not prepared for the diplomatic challenge, but she cannot fail. Too much rides on her to fail.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to the amount of Qunari plot available in the base DA:I game. As a huge Qunari fan, I wanted more! It was written before the release of Trespasser.

The letter had been unsigned, but Laura recognised the tight, looping cursive: Fereldan to a fault, overflowing with ornate flourishes and managing to look elegant on thrice-scraped vellum.

 _He will decide if you should get a second chance. I suggest you do not waste it. Bring the Bull._ And a map, and directions pointing Laura to a remote bay in the Storm Coast.

If she had needed confirmation, which she did not, she would have gone to Leliana and checked the handwriting matched that of her memory. As it was, this letter had been slipped to her in Redcliffe, far from Leliana’s prying eyes, and Laura would give the Queen of Ferelden the secrecy she so obviously sought.

Laura brought the Bull, of course. His shoulders were tight and his skin gleamed with mist, but he did not complain. The husk of the dreadnought sprawled near the horizon and white froth churned around the rusting metal but he did not look, his jaw clenched so hard it made Laura’s own teeth ache in sympathy.

“Let’s check out over there,” she said, pointing down towards the eastern bay, far away from their base camps.

Cassandra raised one eyebrow. “I assume you have a plan, Inquisitor,” she said as she tramped through the grass.

Dorian delicately huffed a laugh. “Why would she start making plans now?”

“I make plans all the time,” Laura said plaintively. She turned to glance back at Dorian and slid on slick grass, going down on one knee. 

“I like the asymmetrical look,” he said, and preened. “I feel someone here is a real trendsetter. Though I wear it better, if I do say so myself.”

Cassandra hissed under her teeth. “Quiet. Look.” Pointing at a far edge of the beach, she continued, “Qunari. Bull, are they here to fight you or talk to you?”

The Iron Bull straightened, his eye roving the party on the beach. “Neither. They are the Beresaad.”

“You know, Inquisitor,” Dorian murmured, “you really don’t seem all that surprised. And those Qunari look awfully like they’re waiting for a meeting of some kind.”

Laura wiped as much of the grass stains as she could. “You’re very observant.”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra began, then broke off into a sigh. “Lead the way.”

 

*

 

As Laura drew closer, the Qunari formed up, four behind with identical axes, and one in front with two broken horns and a lovingly cared-for sword that remained in its sheath.

“You are the one they call Inquisitor,” the lead Qunari said in a flat tone that sounded both like a question, and not.

“I thank you for meeting me,” she said, and bowed. Her hair fell in front of her face and she pushed the stray locks back behind her ear. “I brought the Bull, as the Queen asked. Is she here?”

She could feel the others shift behind her, but only the Iron Bull spoke. “Boss. Just what are you planning?”

The lead Qunari looked to her, expression neutral but with an expectant silence. Laura swallowed.

“That means,” Dorian added in a stage whisper, “that she doesn’t have a plan. Maker, I do feel the burden of being so right all the time.”

All five of the Qunari switched their attention to Dorian in malevolent synchrony.

“Tevinter saarebas,” one muttered. “Not muzzled as it should be.”

Dorian scoffed. “Only in the bedroom, darling.”

The leader held up one hand and his soldiers fell silent. It was a good skill. Laura would have to practice it.

“I am Ataashashaad,” the leader said, and the Bull whistled between his teeth.

“That answers a lot of questions I didn’t even know I had.” He gestured one-handedly, his posture loosening. “If anyone was going to meet with a Tal-Vashoth and an uppity bas without being contaminated, it would be you.”

“I know,” the leader said. His gaze slid to Laura. “It was your choice that brought death to the dreadnought and its crew.”

“It was my choice,” the Bull muttered. “She had nothing to do with it.”

“You are his Sten no longer,” the leader continued without pause, “for he is not of the Qun. But you still lead a great force against a greater evil. I am here to assess your worth.”

Laura paused. “Your rulers still want an alliance, but they can’t just roll over when one of their own has betrayed them. So you show you’ve put in a bit of effort. Appease the masses.”

The leader stared at her wordlessly. “A child’s view, but not incorrect.”

Laura gestured to a log nearby, motioning for him to sit, but he just carried on staring. “So how do I show your rulers I’m worthy?”

“Basalit-an do not ask for their path. They walk it.”

Overhead, a flash of light announced another storm. The thunder rolled past, ruffling Laura’s hair and making her head hurt.

“Come to Skyhold,” she said flatly. She could pronounce just like a Qunari. “I will show you I am worthy.”

Ataashashaad stepped forward away from his retinue.

“Ataash Qunari, Ataashashaad,” one of them said gravely.

The leader nodded. “Anaan esaam Qun. I am ready.”

 

*

 

Cassandra pulled her aside half a second after Josephine took over the introductions to the keep. “This is unwise, Inquisitor.”

Laura nodded. She could not show her own nerves to her people. “Yes, it seems that way.”

“Yet you persist?”

She nodded carefully to Ataashashaad, who was glaring down at Josephine. Josephine curtseyed and laughed but she was obviously tense. The maids had already escaped: this was not the smiling, lounging kind of Qunari who’d tumble with them in the haystacks, and they knew it.

“We can’t afford a war with the Qunari. Rejecting this guy will make them angry. I have to at least try.”

Cassandra frowned. “I will speak with Cullen about the need for increased patrols.”

That was a low blow for Cassandra, but Laura had no time to tell her that: she was being drawn back into the welcoming ceremony and Cassandra was already backing away.

“I hope you find our home welcoming and secure,” Laura said, and bowed.

“Neither will make you basalit-an,” Ataashashaad replied. There was a ghost of a smile on his face.

“You know,” she said suddenly, “I think you’re enjoying being obtuse.”

“I know,” he replied.

“Are you?”

He blinked placidly. “Yes, I am obtuse.”

Josephine fluttered gold and purple by her side. “I think what the Inquisitor meant to ask, was are you enjoying yourself in your…clever conversation?”

“I know,” he said again.

Footsteps pounded down the Great Hall behind them, echoing, and Laura turned with one hand on her dagger but it was Leliana, pink-cheeked and breathless.

“Very secure,” Ataashashaad murmured as his gaze flicked to Laura's tense posture and the hand at her belt. He blinked at Leliana as she launched herself at him.

“Sten!” she gasped, and hugged him. In front of Josephine and the Bull and Dorian, who looked like he was enjoying the spectacle. She murmured, quietly enough that Laura barely heard, “Does Fuchsia know you’re here?”

“The Ataashashaad acts not at the whim of a basalit-an Qunaron Vhel,” he said. 

“Sten is a far easier name to remember,” Dorian said grandly. “I’ll go with Sten, thank you. And now I’ll just go.”

“I am Sten no longer,” he said to Leliana. “I command not infantry, but the glory of the Qun.”

“Come,” she said. “Come, we must talk. I will show you what we do here.”

The Iron Bull growled low under his breath, “Careful, Red.”

She laughed. “You forget, he is my friend. We stopped the Blight together. This man is a hero of Ferelden, just like the Queen Warden.”

With great effort Laura kept her expression neutral. She looked again at his face. The two broken horns should have been the clue. The Qunari warrior in the Fereldan tapestries and commemorative paintings had no horns, and she had always assumed the artists had been ignorant, but they were true to life.

“We are honoured to have you with us,” she said heartily.

“Come,” Leliana said again, but this time she gestured to Laura as well. “The time for ceremony is over. We must be friends.”

“The Qun is no place for friendship,” the Bull said in that same tone of warning.

“We are in the lands of the bas,” Ataashashaad – Sten – said calmly, and followed Leliana without a backwards glance. Laura hurried after them.

 

*

 

“You’ve changed,” Leliana said, placing her hands atop Sten’s. “You’re much funnier.”

“I was humorous before,” he said, and pulled away. He frowned, and Laura followed his unhappy gaze to an empty plate.

“I’ve got you,” she said, and slid over the basket of oat and honey flapjacks she had fetched from the kitchens. They were still warm. “So this is the way to become worthy, right? Hook you up with baked goods?”

“I prefer cookies,” Sten said, but that didn’t stop him from devouring half the batch in three large bites. He returned his attention to Leliana. “You have not changed.”

She shook her head. “Yes, I have.”

“No.” He leant back and glanced over her workshop, the black flutters of caged birds and stink of chemicals. “You still shape the world to make your purpose.”

“I fear I would not make a good convert,” she said conspiratorially, and giggled.

Laura had never heard her laugh like that before. “Leliana,” she whispered, “do you think you’ve had enough brandy?”

“I have had one glass, Inquisitor,” she said primly. “I am not intoxicated, I am happy to see an old friend.”

Nevertheless Laura took the bottle and guarded it while she listened to their stories. They danced around the topic of the King and his Queen Warden – though Leliana has managed to get a letter to her inform her of the events of Adamant, the Queen was still officially missing. Even Leliana did not know where she currently was. Laura had never met King Alistair, and could not imagine him such a callow, yipping youth as Sten described him.

“Are you sure that’s not a little treasonous?” she interrupted, leaning forwards.

Leliana eyed the bottle of brandy in Laura’s grasp and neatly stole it back, setting it back on the table. “Inquisitor, it is late. I will see Sten is properly settled.”

“Ataashashaad,” he said patiently, with a stony face but smiling eyes.

Laura nodded, and stood up. Her head spun and her chest ached and she was not sure why.

“Goodnight,” she murmured, and escaped outside down the wide stone steps that spiralled round the tower. The cold air bit at her skin but it was better than facing the crowds. No doubt Josephine and Cassandra and the Bull and countless others would want to interrogate her about her unwise choices. They would wait for her to return to her rooms.

She went to the southern tower instead. It was dark, and stars were twinkling overhead, but the keep was still lively. He would still be working. She knocked on the large wooden door and pushed it open.

Cullen stood at his desk, hair askew as if he had been worrying at it, a spill of scrolls rolled haphazardly across the floor. Still staring down at the report in front of him he snapped, “That’s not nearly enough time to do a full inventory. No shortcuts.”

Laura bit her lip, caught herself and smoothed her expression. “I can come back at a better time?”

His hands stilled and he darted a glance up at her. His cheeks blushed in the candlelight. “Herald. Inquisitor. I am sorry, I thought you were – well. Someone else. One of my men – can I help you?”

Laura resisted the urge to duck her head to avoid the steadiness of his warm brown eyes. “I came to apologise for making so much more work for you.”

“It is no bother,” he said, but he trailed off uncertainly and seemed to take in the mess of his room anew. “It is merely my duty, and you are doing yours. An alliance with the Qunari would be…beneficial, I am sure.”

He was no longer meeting her eyes and Laura felt the loss in the depth of her chest. She picked up some of his scrolls and started to stack them on his desk, but he tried to take them from her at the same time and her elbow sent a stack of loose papers fluttering to the ground. Her face felt hot and she bent to pick them up, but Cullen leant at the same time and mashed his feather epaulettes against her face.

“Maker’s breath – I’m sorry, no, let me,” he said, pulling her up and steadying her with a firm grip. He held her arms and paused, looking down at her with an awkward smile. His brow was furrowed vaguely, as if from distant pain.

“I should go,” Laura said, and was ashamed to stutter. She had wheedled her way out of three arranged matches before the Conclave: she should be able to deal with the way her stomach fluttered around him, but she could not. Perhaps because not one of the nobles her family had thrown her way had made her feel the way Cullen did.

“Wait,” Cullen said, and released her arms. He lifted his hand to the side of her face, and her breath caught in her throat. She watched his eyes as he plucked a glossy dark feather from her hair and pressed it into her hand. “There.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, and rushed out, still holding the feather. It fluttered in the strong winds but she held on tight.

 

*

 

Ataashashaad did not want a tour, nor did he want a demonstration of the Inquisition’s forces. He did not say what he did want: he merely followed Laura around like a far-too-tall shadow. He finally seemed content to be distracted when Varric popped out of the woodwork to ask about his opinion of the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall.

“That was not an invasion,” Ataashashaad said gravely, and Varric bristled, but twitched his fingers at Laura, at the door. She got the message and skedaddled to the training grounds.

The Iron Bull picked up the training dummy from where he’d ripped it off its mooring. “Boss. Why am I not surprised to see you?”

Laura grimaced. “Any insight?”

The Bull laughed, shook his head. “He’s old school. Makes the Ariqun look like a giggling imekari. A kid. But he respects you folk more than anyone.”

“More than you?”

He grinned. “Different to me, boss. But he’s as dangerous as I am. Not as ruggedly handsome, but definitely as dangerous.”

Laura stared at the broken dummy. There was no way the Bull was going to be able to get it to stand on its own without a carpenter’s intervention. “How do I get him to respect me?”

“Stop the Blight. Or something similar.”

“How wonderfully recursive. I stop Corypheus so he’ll respect me, but I need his respect to stop Corypheus. I’m sure I’ll be great.”

A deep voice rumbled behind her. “Your small person and I have finished our conversation.”

Laura pasted on a smile, thought better of it, and squared her shoulders before turning around. “Ataashashaad. There you are.”

“Inquisitor,” he said, and looked at the Bull. “Tal-Vashoth.”

The Iron Bull shrugged equably. “You won’t spot me regretting my actions, Ataashashaad. I kept my boys alive.”

“You saved basra by sacrificing those under the Qun,” Ataashashaad pronounced in a severe tone.

Laura cleared her throat. “Technically that’s what an alliance is going to end up doing, you know.” She swallowed against the steely gaze that swung her way. “If your people come here to help us fight, that’s what will happen. You’ll save lives, but some of you will die. And we’ll do the same in return.”

“Come now, boss,” the Bull said with a bitter smile. “You’re under the misapprehension that he thinks your lives and Qun lives weigh equal. What would you say the ratio is these days, Ataashashaad? Five to one? Ten?”

“No,” Ataashashaad said, and walked away.

Laura shot the Bull a glare, a shake of her head.

“You’d think one horned devil would be enough for you,” he said, and he threw the dummy at the wall, where it shattered and splintered with a puff of sawdust.

 

*

 

It had been a fortnight and it was not going well. The Iron Bull, Dorian and Varric had retreated to the Herald’s Rest, conspiring to make a raucous enough atmosphere that the Qunari would never poke his horned head in: those were Varric’s words on the subject. Sera had been brave. Too brave. Laura had ended up dragging her away when she’d lectured Ataashashaad on how Qunari women would help the diplomatic whatsits go smoother. Josephine was trying very hard but she was used to Orlesians: calm and reserved were not particularly common traits amongst their nobility.

Solas and Cole, at least, were staying out of the way. Laura would count her blessings where she could. A blessing was certainly not Ataashashaad informing her that he would attend her excursion to Crestwood.

“I will witness the glory you bring to your people,” he said simply.

At least he was using fewer Qunari words, she reminded herself. And she and Cullen had managed to have a proper conversation with no items dropped, nothing broken. She counted her blessings carefully.

He followed her to Crestwood. She brought Vivienne, Cassandra and Blackwall: Vivienne knew enough diplomacy to hold back on the sarcastic comments, Cassandra was stiffly polite and Blackwall had managed to slide into an easy, competent silence with Ataashashaad. Laura realised she shouldn’t really have been surprised. Blackwall did not easily judge, and Sten was familiar with working with Wardens.

“This area is stable,” Ataashashaad remarked as they crested the rise to Caer Bronach. The sun hung sunset-high in the warm pink-toned sky, the Inquisition flags fluttered, and lively tunes drifted in the air from the village in the valley below. Crestwood was healing.

“It wasn’t before we got here,” Laura said. The anchor tingled and sparked with the echoing remnants of the rifts she had closed. The air still tasted electric and oily: she was no mage but she knew now what a thin Veil felt like.

“It will not stay this way without intervention,” Vivienne said in her cut-glass accent. “Bandits, Venatori, rifts, a gossamer-thin Veil, apostates and renegade Templars: without the Inquisition you would not see such a pretty picture here.”

“You think you list reasons for the influence of your Inquisition,” Ataashashaad said grimly, “but what you list is instead a need for the Qun in these lands.”

“Surely your superiors know that any attempt at religious conversion will only result in one thing,” Vivienne said down her nose. “An Exalted March.”

“Surely your superiors know that an Exalted March against the Qunari will only result in one thing,” Ataashashaad replied. “Bas a katara.”

There were so many tasks awaiting her at Caer Bronach and it felt natural and easy to lose patience in the face of her duties. “Stop posturing, both of you. This alliance will save Thedas and you know it. That’s why you’re here, Ataashashaad. You have already learned to see our lands with an open mind. You did it before. So learn the way you’re meant to. And Vivienne, stop throwing the Divine’s weight around when we don’t even have one yet.”

“Well, my dear,” Vivienne said calmly, “it would appear you have a spine after all. Now ensure you display such fortitude to the correct targets.”

Laura did not have time for it. She strode into the fort and let her duties overtake her worries: Charter’s reports, the guardsmen’s concerns, condolences for fallen infantry. Ataashashaad followed her, grim and quiet, but not one person questioned his presence. Unlike the villagers who had either stared or outright fled in fear, her people looked to her, awaited her confirmation, and got to their business. She could only feel proud of their calm and humbled by their trust in her.

It was dark by the time they were done, and Charter arranged for accommodation: bedrolls and blankets, but warm and sheltered. She watched Ataashashaad contemplate the fire and thought his expression had somewhat softened.

She would succeed. She had to. She knew what would happen to Crestwood and all the other overlooked places if she failed.

 

*

 

Gauld, the new Mayor, tried to collar her on their way out of Crestwood.

“Your Worship,” he said, stuttering. “If you please?”

“Go on, Mayor,” she said, and dismounted, holding her horse’s reins in one hand.

“One of the farmers went missing yesterday. She got scared of – of…” Gault glanced nervously up at Ataashashaad. “But anyway. We were expecting her back for a meet at the Mayor’s house – my house – but she didn’t show. Last night. And her family’s a bit worried, she’s not the most..”

Laura held up her hand. “Do you know what direction she left the village?”

He gave her directions, all the details he had, and she turned to Cassandra. “Ride back to the fort, give Charter the details and have them send out patrols. We must ride back to Skyhold.”

“But messere,” Gauld mumbled.

She laid a hand against his arm and he stilled. “Good Mayor, I will ensure that your farmer returns to the village safely. I have faith that my men will do this.”

“I have faith too,” he said, bobbing his head in a nod.

They were not yet out of earshot when Ataashashaad remarked, “Your role is too broad. You cannot be protector to all these people.”

“That’s why I delegate,” she said. “I will protect them. I’ll see to it that the farmer is safe.”

“And if she is already dead?”

She glanced over her shoulder: Gauld had stopped midstep but was not looking back. She said firmly, “She is not. I have faith.”

“I see,” he said, and she knew she had disappointed him, but the tension had lifted from Gauld’s shoulders. 

They rode on. It was several days’ journey back to the mountains; when they were at the last border town before Haven a carrier pigeon arrived from Charter: all villagers accounted for. Crestwood was fine.

She did not present it to Ataashashaad. It was not his business. But out of the corner of her eye she saw him observe her, and nod to himself.

 

*

 

Haven sat in the pit of her stomach like a poison: gutted, burned skeletons of buildings and no life to speak of. The dead had been found and funerals held, the Chant sung over their charred corpses, but the air still felt thick with smoke and despair.

“Corypheus,” Ataashashaad said, not as a question.

“Just to get this,” she said, and held out her hand. The anchor glowed acid-green, sullen and grim. “And now this is spoiled for him, he will tear apart the world looking for another way into the Fade.”

“The Fade,” he said, as if the word was a curse. “His actions bring that place into this world. Your veil thins. Demons enter.”

Blackwall lifted his head from his intense contemplations: he had been quiet ever since Adamant. “The Qunari have been corrupted by darkspawn just as much as any other race. Corypheus is the worst of the darkspawn. It is within your interests to stop him.”

“Yes,” he replied, staring at the ruined buildings. “It is. But that does not mean the best choice for the Qunari is to fight alongside the bas.”

Blackwall shook his head wordlessly and looked to the sky, where the rift glowed dully as stormclouds scudded across it. Laura looked ahead. At the door of the burned chantry grew a pink embrium flower, warm against the stark white snow. She picked it and tucked it into her sleeve, and led the way up the mountain.

 

*

 

“There will be no alliance,” Ataashashaad said, and she could not even hear regret in his voice. His face was impassive as ever as he surveyed the herb gardens and healers working.

“Why?” Laura asked. She hated the sound of her own plaintive whine, but could not erase it as she spoke.

“You know,” he said. “Or you do not.”

Her palms itched. She pressed them to the stone railing to keep them still. “I know the Qunari need Corypheus to be defeated. I know that we need your help. I know you need an alliance to bring armies over here without starting a war. What I don’t know is why there will be no alliance.”

“You speak of need,” he said, “where there is only the Qun.”

“Empty rhetoric,” she spat, and pushed away from her spot by his side. “All you have done is watch and speak. I need allies who are willing to act.”

“Your allies are your so-called mages, fat nobility, and farmers who know not how to wield swords. Without the Qun, you will fail.”

“So you want us to fail?”

“No.”

Laura took a deep breath. “I excuse myself from your presence, Ataashashaad. I do not wish to say something I regret.”

“It is no doubt a most familiar feeling,” Ataashashaad agreed.

She turned on her heel and stalked away. In the Great Hall, one of the runners stood unsure, holding a scroll case in both hands, and half-approaching her.

“Is that for me?” Laura asked, trying to hide the snarl from her voice.

“Yes, Your Worship.”

She took the case and fled to her rooms. Her heart pounded futile anger and frustration through her veins.

Her door rattled with a polite knock. She ran her hands through her hair. “Enter.”

“I do not wish to intrude,” Leliana said, her hands tucked behind her back. “Sten does not mean to be rude.”

“At this point, I don’t really care about his intentions. His intentions were presumably to make an alliance possible, but he’s not lifted a finger to help.”

“On the contrary, Inquisitor,” she said calmly, softly, “he has told you what the Triumveratae would require to forge an alliance. You and he merely speak a different language.”

“Well. Maybe you can speak to him, if you’re such good friends.”

Leliana gave her an odd look: equal parts alarm and concern. “Inquisitor. Those scrolls you hold contain the sum of all of my research into the Qunari. This information may help you understand his, and their, position.”

“This would have been helpful earlier,” Laura said, and placed the case on her desk with a frim, controlled anger. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

“Not as your Spymaster, no,” Leliana said, and folded her arms across her chest. “But as an impartial observer? If you wish to have friends here, not just disciples, perhaps you should not push away those who are merely trying to help.”

Laura’s blood ran cold. She kept her face still. “Thank you, Sister Nightingale.”

The room echoed with Leliana’s disapproval, even after she left. Laura sat at her desk and took out the scrolls and tried to read them, but she could not pretend to take anything in. Her stomach writhed in shame and fury.

She knew what Sera would say. _You’re too serious, Quizzy._ Varric would no doubt imply that if she were a more frequent gambler, it would come naturally to her when it never had before. Friendship.

“She thinks she has no talent, but she is afraid. Full of far-fetched fears that friends fall into foes.”

She closed the case. Cole stood behind the desk. He tilted his head at her.

“You needed me.”

“When I need you, I’ll ask,” she started, and remembered Leliana’s words. She took a breath. “But I am not very good at asking for help.”

“You ask for help all the time,” Cole said, and pointed out the windows at the keep below.

“For myself. Me as a person. Laura Trevelyan, rather than the Inquisitor.”

“You think if you let them get close, they will hurt you. But keeping them away hurts you more.”

She leant back in her chair. Behind her the fireplace was cold; months ago she had told the staff to build it up but not to bother lighting it. Her hours were too inconsistent to waste the firewood.

“That’s generally the way of things.”

“You want me to have friends, though.” He frowned at the floor. “Do you wish me to be hurt?”

“Of course not.”

“But it’s generally the way of things. You said.”

“Cole, I am very tired and frustrated and I don’t think I can explain it without saying something I don’t mean.” She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, and closed her eyes. “Could we discuss this later?”

He did not answer. When she opened her eyes he was gone. It was exactly what Leliana had said she did, and Cole was right: it did hurt.

It did not matter. Not when the Qunari were threatening to stand by and watch the rest of Thedas fall to Corypheus’ sway. She pulled out one of Nightingale’s scrolls and began to read.

 

*

 

Cullen smiled at her golden hair limned with warm candlelight, and his eyes shone with calm delight, and his bare hand brushed her cheek. The alarm bells sounded but Cullen did not react.

“We’re under attack,” Laura said, but her voice was muffled as if she was underwater.

The candlelight glowed sickly green. Cullen shimmered and Laura opened her eyes to a dark room, night-time in her Skyhold apartment, and a red flash sparked somewhere down in the keep. The floor rumbled and the tall windows shattered in their frames with one tremendous crash.

She rolled off the bed and grabbed her knives. No time to dress, but she snatched up her poisons, her salves, and launched herself down the stairs to the Great Hall. She took too many steps at once, overbalanced, and fell into Cassandra’s arms.

“Thank the Maker,” she said. “You weren’t caught in the blast.”

“Was that magic?”

She shook her head and put Laura down, leading the way downstairs. “Some sort of explosion at the southern wall. Cullen is forming our defences within the keep, he’s afraid something is about to break its way through.”

The Great Hall was a mess of panicked activity. Laura shouted instructions: healers to the north gardens, civilians to the chapel, the fresh-faced young soldiers to guard them and the veterans to the southern wall. While she spoke, the floor rattled with another boom and she staggered against Cassandra’s shield. Varric rolled over and picked himself up off the floor.

“I know that sound,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s Qunari blackpowder. Gaatlok.”

“Not Corypheus, then,” Laura said with a grim smile. “Small blessings. Shall we?”

Outside the night sky glowed red with fire and smoke to the south. The southern tower had partially toppled, and parts of the wall were leaning perilously inwards as if their foundations were at fault. Laura did not let herself feel fear for Cullen. It would not be fair on the rest of her people to worry for one man. She let the cool, calm power of the Inquisitor take over and led the charge, directing Sera and Varric to higher ground, pointing Dorian at the wall that slid down until his magic field held it in place. She watched as her warriors stood their ground at the breach and squinted through the dissipating smoke.

Ataashashaad climbed up to stand by her side. “Tal-Vashoth. They have come for me.”

As he spoke she caught a glimpse of metallic shine, the swing of a grey arm, and she pushed him to one side: or tried to. His feet were planted to the ground as sure as the main tower, and he did not move.

“Duck!” she said as a Qunari spear launched through the smoke at his heart. In one smooth movement he drew the blade at his side and sliced the spear in two.

“Ebost issala, Tal-Vashoth!” he roared, and stamped on the broken spear, shattering it into splinters.

He was a capable fighter in her besieged keep: Laura ordered him around the way she ordered everyone else. She saw Cullen during the fighting, his blond hair gleaming in the churning light, red at his temple but still standing and fighting. She did not let that distract her: she climbed the broken outer wall to see the invaders beyond, a ragtag group still trying to push their way into the keep, balancing precariously on a ledge that surrounded the southern wall. One misstep and they would tumble back down the mountain. They had to have climbed very carefully to get up without being spotted.

Too many had successfully pushed into the keep. She checked the supplies she had with her, the poisons and tonics, and craned her neck to see the rest of the Tal-Vashoth’s equipment: one of the lancers at the back had a backpack strapped tightly, barrels painted red, and whatever gaatlok was, she guessed that man was responsible for carrying it.

Varric and Sera were nowhere to be seen, and the mages were pinned down to the east, stuck behind Blackwall as he held off five Tal-Vashoth warriors. Laura was best up close, but she could improvise: a borrowed bow from one of her guardswomen, a rag soaked in pitch and oil and lit from burning timber, and she was ready.

She could not aim properly. Her arms were quick, rather than strong and steady, and the bow wavered in her grip.

“Messere, let me,” the guardswoman said, tugging back at her bow. “The fellow with the barrels, right? I can do it.”

But in their exchange the Tal-Vashoth had noticed, and he was pulling back to throw a spear. She tugged the guardswoman down and the spear flew over their heads, but worst of all, he was facing them now.

“I can go down there and stick the arrow right in the barrel, Your Worship,” the guardswoman said breathlessly. “It would be my honour.”

Laura kicked at the woman’s knee as she tried to stand, keeping her low. “Absolutely not.”

“We know the risks. It’s what we signed up for, my lady!”

“Your name, guardswoman?”

“Cartwright, Your Worship,” she said, grinning with yellow-stained teeth. She had to be twice Laura’s age. Perhaps she was a mother; a grandmother, even. 

“I hope you signed up to protect your country, not just to die.” Laura pulled out one of her smaller, weighted daggers and dipped it in one of her poisons. “When I say, you can stand and take the shot. I will make sure you survive it.”

Cartwright nodded and nocked the still-burning arrow to her bow, crouching and ready. Laura peered over the edge of the wall to place her target: he was distracted, but still faced the wrong direction, so she threw the dagger and it hit true. He seized his arm, his mouth agape with a pained shout that Laura could not hear above the roar of the battle. He bent over his arm, clutching it tightly.

“Now,” she said, two more daggers held tight between her fingers. She loosed them as Cartwright aimed, taking down another lancer who had guessed their intent. As soon as Cartwright’s bow shuddered with the shot, Laura pulled her down and away.

There was another resounding boom, a flash of light, and then nothing but a high-pitched whine. The ground rumbled, and she staggered forwards, forwards, Cartwright holding on to her arm. She could not tell whether she kept Cartwright standing, or if Cartwright was dragging her as the wall fell away beneath their feet.

The battlements shook and slid and she could feel herself falling, so she grabbed at Cartwright’s shoulders and threw them both back into the keep’s grounds. Buried would be better than fallen all the way down the mountain.

Something struck her legs and she tried to roll with the landing and then even the rattling echo of the explosion went silent. Everything went black.

 

*

 

Someone was shouting her name. Laura rolled onto her back, coughing, and touched her ears and the side of her head. Everything was wet and cold. She opened her eyes and saw Cartwright’s yellowed teeth set in a frightened rictus smile, dark eyes widening with relief.

“Should I drag you, Your Worship? I don’t want to hurt you!”

Laura pulled herself to her feet. Beyond Cartwright the battle was ongoing but calming. No Tal-Vashoth lay down their weapons, fighting to the death. The Bull expertly disarmed one, and she responded by throwing herself back through the hole in the walls and off the cliff, disappearing from view and certainly soon-to-be-dead.

“Go help them,” she said to Cartwright. “I’m all right.”

She had one healing poultice, which she pressed to the jagged bloody rip at her lower back. Her head spun sickeningly but she kept to her feet and watched as the final Tal-Vashoth fighter died on Ataashashaad’s blade.

“Head count!” Cullen yelled, pacing up and down and coordinating efforts to pick up rubble and look for the trapped, the dying. Laura watched as her people started to clear the grounds of the fighting.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana said, her hand at Laura’s elbow. “My deepest apologies. I should have seen this coming, Your Worship. I have no excuse. Please, let me take you to the healers.”

Laura gestured at Cullen’s wounded. “Have them tended first. I’m on my feet, I can wait for a healer.”

“At least sit,” Leliana said, and guided her to a toppled granite slab. “I will have someone see to you as soon as they are able.”

Laura sat and watched. Her people worked quickly, voices loud but not panicked. The civilians were far away but even so Laura heard the faint refrains of the minstrel keeping them calm and entertained. 

Ataashashaad strode up to her. “Someone here informed them of my presence, Inquisitor. Someone here is a traitor.”

She shook her head. “It was the Crestwood farmer.”

He stopped and stared down at her wordlessly. She nodded to the slab and he sat down, shoulders stiff, his sleeping trousers flecked with blood. None was his own.

“She ran from you, but not to her own house? She wasn’t afraid, she was running off to send a message. You didn’t keep your mission enough of a secret, otherwise they wouldn’t have placed an agent in a run-down village like Crestwood.”

He paused. “You may be correct.”

“You are being unnecessarily hesitant and it is damaging the diplomatic relations you were sent here to build.” She gave him a sarcastically sunny smile. “See? I can be overly direct too.”

“I do not smile,” he said, “so the impression is flawed.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“You changed it first,” he said, and his eyes warmed.

“You’re about to make yourself a liar,” Laura said, and pointed at his face. “That’s almost a smile.”

He looked away to the ruined wall. “You remind me of someone I once knew. I regret the injuries you and your people have sustained tonight. I will ensure the Qunari help you rebuild your wall.”

She sighed. “It’s not the wall I’m worried about, and you know it. I need that alliance and I will do what I must in order to secure it.”

Ataashashaad opened his mouth to speak, but Cullen’s voice rang out across the rubble-strewn courtyard: “Inquisitor!”

“I will leave you to your Kadan,” he said, and stood. “I will assist in securing the keep, and we will talk tomorrow.”

Laura could not catch her breath to argue as he paced away, past Cullen and towards the milling guards. Cullen glanced back, once, but then rushed to Laura and knelt in front of her.

“Inquisitor, I am led to believe you caused the final explosion?”

She ducked her head and instantly regretted the way it swam against the movement. “I didn’t want their reinforcements getting in on their own time. I thought it would be good to shake them up. I’m sorry.”

He blinked up at her. He was breathing hard and she realised that not only were his hands clasping hers, they were trembling.

“What? No. It was a masterful move and commanded the battlefield in our favour. Two guards were trapped beneath the rockfall, but they are with the healers now. We lost eight men, and fifteen more injured, but we would have lost more if things had continued as they were.”

She looked into his eyes. “Cullen, you’re shaking. Are you injured?”

He gripped her hands tighter. “Inquisitor. Lady Trevelyan. You are shaking. Leliana told me you would not see a healer. Please, let me take you to one.”

“Seventeen injured is too many for the healers to deal with as it is. Take me to my room, and I’ll sleep, and see them in the morning.” Laura glanced down at her hands and willed them to be steady. She was not sure if she succeeded. She became aware of how the night air bit at the wet, torn fabric of her nightshirt.

She became aware of the fact she was wearing her nightshirt in front of Cullen, that he was kneeling between her sore and bloodied legs, and that she had ordered him to take her to her bedroom.

He coughed once. “Of course, Lady Inquisitor. Here. Let me.”

She leant on his arm as they walked. They passed Sera, who glanced between them and managed to combine a lewd gesture with an approving thumbs-up: Cullen missed both, but Laura felt her face heat.

“Don’t chicken out this time, Your Worshippiness,” Sera said in a warning tone. “I’ll know if you do.”

“Is Sera quite all right?” Cullen asked her in a murmur.

“She must have hit her head on some masonry.” Laura turned back and, on impulse, stuck her tongue out at Sera. Her delighted smile shone bright and her cackle sang through the night air. Laura couldn’t remember the last time she made someone laugh like that.

“We will rebuild the wall,” Cullen said softly as they climbed the stairs. “And whatever hold they managed to get on the side of the mountain to climb, your final explosion has destroyed. No one else will be able to use that route: Skyhold is still safe.”

“It doesn’t matter if I can’t get the Qunari to ally with us,” Laura mumbled. Her lips tingled with exhaustion and pain.

“I do not believe that for a second.” Cullen hauled open the door and guided Laura up the final few steps to her room. Glass sparkled on the floor and the wind shrieked through the broken windows, and whatever Cullen had been about to say, it was lost as his mouth fell open in dismay.

“You cannot possibly sleep here,” he said.

“It’s still warmer than Haven.” It was only partially a joke: the hut Laura had used in Haven had seen better days, and the ceiling had leaked snowmelt every morning, but Laura had never mentioned it. She did not want to trouble anyone, and she knew she would only be moved somewhere better to leave another to take the colder place. 

“You are injured.”

“You know, the deserts to the west get pretty cold at night, and I camp out there with a tent and everything.”

He frowned. “Sometimes I feel that you purposefully go against my suggestions, Inquisitor, though I could not tell you why.”

“Because you make me feel so flustered,” Laura said without meaning to say anything at all. She looked up at him, his soft, arched lips and tired eyes. She reached up and touched a fingertip to the cut at his temple. “You’re injured too. Where will you sleep? Your office was destroyed.”

He turned his face towards her hand, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second. “I, ah, had not given the matter any thought.”

“Then I hardly think you should cast aspersions on my sleeping arrangements,” she said. Her heart thudded in her chest and she could almost hear Sera, or Dorian, or even Varric murmur in disgust: _come on, Trevelyan. Invite him in. Just ask and he’ll say yes._

Her breath caught in her throat. She said nothing; Cullen touched his hand to her cheek, his thumb drifting across her chin, then her cheekbone. His lips parted slightly.

“I should let you rest,” he said softly. “I do not wish to disturb you.”

 _Kiss him,_ the others would say, but she could not bring herself to lean up to him. She could not bear the risk of him turning away.

“I’m sure Leliana will find you somewhere comfortable to sleep,” she said, and pulled herself upright so she was no longer leaning against him. The air was very cold without his body next to hers.

His expression turned stricken for a moment, and then his jaw squared and he smiled. “I hope you find a night’s peace, Inquisitor.”

Once he was gone, the wind howled. Laura crawled into the bed and pulled the blankets tight around herself, blood and all.

 

*

 

She read Leliana’s scrolls. She learned. She put Ataashashaad, and Sten, into context. When the Quanri craftspeople arrived she welcomed them in their tongue, her pronunciation honed to perfection from countless repetitions with the Bull.

“You know,” the Bull said in an arch tone as they watched the Genaari work, “You never made this much of an effort for me.”

Her head still hurt from the explosion, and from a prank bucket of ice-cold water that had presumably from Sera in retaliation for her cowardice with Cullen. Her overwhelming instinct was to defend herself, or to point out the difficulties she and the Bull had at the beginning. But she wanted to learn. She needed to be better.

“Well, you know,” she said in her best innuendo, “they’re playing hard to get.” 

The Bull laughed. “They’re being easier than you think, Boss. I’m still alive.”

“I know they want an alliance. I just have to work out how to get them to go for it.”

“Politics,” the Bull said, with a disgusted sigh. “That’s why I’m a merc. Leave all the complicated, tactical decision-making to the chumps. Like you, Boss.”

“Thanks,” Laura said drily: she meant it sarcastically but he laughed again. It was sort of warming in her chest, making jokes and having him laugh, even if they were either embarrassing jokes or accidental ones.

“Think about how the Hero of Ferelden must have won him over,” he said. “That might give you some ideas.”

“We’ve already had this conversation,” she said wearily. “And then our honoured guest interrupted us before we could get anywhere important.”

The Bull made an exaggerated gesture of looking around them both. Ataashashaad stood on the edge of the battlements next to the Qunari workers, looking out over the mountainous vista. “Well. We’re safe from interruptions here. So.”

A runner came up, bowed breathlessly and said, “Inquisitor. Beg pardon, Your Worship, but I bring word from Sister Nightingale.”

Laura glanced at the Bull, who laughed again. She risked a wry smile, and he ruffled her hair.

“Pity you’re not a redhead,” he said, peering down at her. “Though you’re already taken, hmm?”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, I don’t know how you’re lasting this long without some sort of release. You can cut that sexual tension with a knife. Maybe the Commander’s sword.” He turned to the runner, winked, and sauntered off.

“Um,” the runner said. She looked Laura’s age, with worry-lines creasing her forehead and blue eyes wide in shock. “Is it true, then? About you and the Commander?”

Laura had to stop ticking off her people. She took a deep breath. “What word do you bring me, Runner…?”

“Parsons,” she said, and bowed. She had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Sister Nightingale has found the Crestwood farmer, Your Worship. The one who sent word to those Tal-Vashoth bastards so they could attack us.”

Laura nodded. “Parsons. Go inform Ataashashaad and bring him to Sister Nightingale’s loft immediately.”

“Messere,” Parsons said, paling. She shifted on her feet.

“Perhaps you can reflect on your excessive curiosity while you do so,” Laura said, and found herself smirking.

“By your leave.” Parsons bowed again and rushed off, but her shoulders were square. She felt chastised, not humiliated. Laura could be a better leader. She was learning.

 

*

 

“We have learned all we can from her,” Leliana said softly. Behind her the farmer knelt on the floor with metal manacles between her wrists: a pose that reminded Laura uncomfortably of waking up outside Haven as a prisoner.

“I agree,” Ataashashaad rumbled. He had said nothing to the farmer: he had not needed to. She had taken one look at him and started babbling everything she knew.

“The only question remaining is what to do with her. She knew what she was doing was illegal and she did it for coin.” Leliana glanced back, face impassive. “What would you have me do, Inquisitor?”

Jarrot the farmer had been recruited by the Tal-Vashoth as an informant when they had heard Ataashashaad was going to be arriving soon on the Storm Coast. She had received twenty gold coins for agreeing, a further twenty for running and sending the message of his whereabouts and movements from Crestwood, and according to her, she was owed a hundred more upon their successful return.

“They said they would do it before you reached this place,” she had said, stuttering and crying. “I didn’t want no harm coming to the Inquisition. Just the horned devil. They said he was the first part of an invasion!”

She was greedy, selfish, and stupid, but she was far from evil.

“Were she of the Qun, her path would be clear,” Ataashashaad pronounced.

“Retraining by the Ben-Hassrath, I know.” Laura did not miss Leliana’s pleased look, the warm glance of her eyes that told Laura she was pleased that her scrolls had been of use. Laura turned to consider Jarrot, who now stared at the floor and silently wept. 

“Send her to Mother Giselle,” she said quietly. “She is to become a Sister in the Chantry.”

Leliana’s mouth dropped open. “Inquisitor, the Chantry is unstable enough as it is. Does it really need to deal with criminal runaways at a time like this?”

Sten’s eyebrow lifted minutely. “As I recall, Leliana, the Chantry did such for you during the Blight.”

“That is different,” Leliana said calmly. “At least I travelled to another country. Shall we send Jarrot to Val Royeaux, then?”

“No.” Laura could see the ruined South Tower out of Leliana’s window. Smoke and dust from the building operations curled into the air. “We keep her close. No one needs know her past. Let her befriend the people whom she hurt. Let her see the damage she has wrought from her selfish deeds. Let her learn the Chant. If a fraction of Mother Giselle’s charity rubs off on her, she’ll be a better person.”

Leliana bowed. “I will see it done. Would you like to talk to her?”

Laura turned the issues over in her head, and nodded. When she approached, Jarrot lifted her head and gave a great, wet cough that turned into a sob.

“I’m so sorry, Herald of Andraste. I have disappointed you in every way.”

Laura knew how to approach her. “My people inform me that not all the Tal-Vashoth came in this attack.”

Of course, Leliana gave no reaction other than a cool nod. She was good at improvising.

“I know the Tal-Vashoth,” Laura continued. “And what I fear is they will come to find you in Crestwood to ask you why this attack was so unsuccessful.”

“But it wasn’t my fault they were so slow through the mountains!” Jarrot cried. She held up her hands, pleading.

“I know.” Laura crouched so she was lower than Jarrot, and pulled out a handkerchief. She gently dabbed at Jarrot’s scrubbed-red cheek. “My people at the fort will protect Crestwood and the rest of your kin, you can trust in that. But I find the best way of reducing hurt is to avoid the fight in the first place.”

Jarrot nodded uncertainly. “Whatever you say, Your Worship?”

“I want you to stay here, at Skyhold, where they will not be able to reach you. I will ensure your safety.”

She shook her head. “No, Your Worship. You should not be placed at risk here in your home because of my mistake. Not again.”

Laura pressed the handkerchief into Jarrot’s hand, keenly aware that the silk and linen blend was likely the finest fabric Jarrot would have ever felt. “It is my choice, Jarrot. I only ask that you make that risk worthwhile.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” she said, and held her breath as Laura unlocked her manacles. She rubbed her wrists gingerly, and stood. “I will make you proud however I can. Thank you. Thank you for your mercy.”

Leliana led her downstairs with a small, triumphant smile. Laura mouthed a good-night to her, and went out onto the balcony. The sky glowed twilight blue and pink with the last vestiges of sunset.

As she had hoped, Ataashashaad came out and joined her. She held her tongue and enjoyed the cool night air for what it was, tamping down on the worry and tension that wracked her when he was normally nearby.

“Do you believe that religion will make this woman worthwhile?”

Laura considered for a moment. “Yes.”

There was a beat of silence. “Can you explain?”

“Yes,” Laura repeated.

The Qunari who smirked beside her was Leliana’s Sten, but Ataashashaad spoke sternly. “Explain your reasoning.”

“You believe the Qun makes wrongdoers worthwhile, but that’s religion and culture in one. If she went to any Chantry chapel in Thedas, she would not have as great a chance. But here, she has both religion and a culture of selfless good.” She bent over the wall and looked down at Cassandra as she ordered around a handful of Cullen’s younger recruits. None of them had half Cassandra’s years and they were all silently, respectfully terrified of her, but of course she would not go easy on them. The fear made them strive to be better.

“I made her think it’s a sacrifice to me, to have her here. I made sure she thinks her debt is to me, personally, rather than just to the Inquisition.”

He frowned. “That is not the way of the Qun.”

She breathed out slowly. “I know.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am proud of my actions tonight,” she said. “I know she will become a loyal, competent servant. I have made the best choices for the most people.”

He was silent for a time. “What of justice?”

“Jarrot the Farmer is gone. Whatever name Leliana gives her now, she’s a Chantry Sister now. She sacrificed her life in penance: that is justice. I won’t harm the fabric of the Inquisition to pursue corporal punishment.”

“And if I were not here?”

“You are here.”

“If I were not, would you make the same choices?”

“I have learned from you,” she said, “so no.”

“Does that concern you?”

“No.” She held her breath. It was extraordinarily difficult to stop talking. It did not feel natural, but at the same time it made her want to laugh.

“Hmm,” Ataashashaad said, and went back inside.

 

*

 

The repairs continued apace. Funerals were held for the fallen soldiers, at which Mother Giselle officiated and Laura stood in a grave watch and lit the funeral pyres. They sang, and Laura made sure her voice was clear and steady, a beacon to be heard.

When the repairs were finished there was a celebration, of course: Sera’s suggestion, Laura’s assent, Josephine’s effort. Laura stayed within the warm glow of the festivities despite her discomfort. She played Wicked Grace with Varric: she lost twice and then won once in what seemed suspiciously like a thrown game. She did not voice her suspicions. She gathered up her prize, a stack of bitesize pastries, and grinned at Varric, and said, “See? I’m learning.”

“Yes you are,” Varric said with a wicked grin.

She carried her pastries in a stack and was watching them instead of where she was going. She bumped into several people: Sera, who laughed and took one, then Vivienne, who tsked under her breath and then took one, and then Cullen. Naturally, it was on the third go when she managed to smear custard all over her victim.

“Your coat,” she said, trying to stay calm.

Cullen looked down at the yellow-smeared feathers and laughed. “No matter, Inquisitor. It rather needs a wash, anyway –”

He broke off. Laura waited a moment, then ventured, “Are you all right, Cullen?”

“I am quite well,” he said, and looked away. He rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort. “I, ah, those custard pastries are…a particular favourite of mine, if I am honest. Have you claimed all of them for yourself?”

Laura glanced back at the fireplace, where Varric was leaning back in a chair, watching over his steepled fingers. He gave a wave and a small salute.

“Let’s eat them outside,” Laura said, smiling. “Show me your new office. And the battlements.”

“I’m sure Cassandra already gave you the tour,” he said slowly. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time...”

She studied his face and understood why everyone was always so frustrated with her all the time. “Please, Cullen. I would like you to show me.”

He looked relieved. “As you wish, my lady. Inquisitor.”

They walked together on the walls. The music rang quietly in the air. People were happy. The sounds of the dancing made Laura think of Haven, before Corypheus’ attack, and she shivered.

“I know,” Cullen said softly. “I am glad that the others are able to relax, but I am glad to be out here where I can keep an eye on the mountain. Leliana has given double pay to her scouts to keep them happy that they are out there, rather than here at the party.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Laura murmured. They would not be taken by surprise again. She handed over the stack of pastries.

“Do you not want one?” he asked, holding them like they were precious gems.

“I’d rather you enjoy them,” she said. She would rather watch him enjoy them. She glanced out of the corner of her eye as he worked his way steadily through them: he left his gloves on his new desk, and after a moment’s hesitation his feathered cloak too, and he was not wearing his chestplate beneath. He got flaked pastry on his tunic and brushed it off absent-mindedly as he gave her his viewpoint on the repairs.

“Every time someone hurts us,” Laura said quietly, “we rebuild stronger. I like it. You should all be proud.”

He gave her a lightning-quick flash of a sugary grin. “I feel I have been rewarded well, Inquisitor.”

She stopped, and turned to face him. Her heart was pounding fast again. “Is that all you want?”

He blinked at her. “I suppose another heavy platoon wouldn’t go amiss. You can never have enough infantry, you see.”

The tactics talk was so tempting. She dearly wanted to hear his opinions on infantry assignments, but Varric and Sera were waiting, and it was so frustrating going nowhere and holding her breath every single time they were alone together. She leant in and tilted her head up, so she could look into his eyes.

“Personally,” she said softly. “Not professionally. Are you satisfied on a personal level?”

A blush warmed his cheeks. “I would never dream of asking for anything more, Inquisitor.”

A blast of cold wind made Laura shiver. She leant in closer so she could feel the warmth of Cullen’s body. “What would you ask for,” she whispered, “if you dared?”

His fingertips brushed against her face: they were sticky with sugar syrup and smelled of vanilla. “My lady.”

She went onto her tiptoes. Her cold nose touched his warm cheek and he laughed in quiet, happy disbelief. One of his hands curled into her hair. His touch on her scalp made her skin prickle in anticipation.

A sound behind Cullen made Laura freeze, and she grabbed the throwing knife from her boot, curled around Cullen’s side, took one look at the unfamiliar leather armour, the shadowed figure, and threw the knife. 

A long dagger flashed in the darkness and a blue spark fell through the air as the figure sliced the knife out of the air. It clattered off the battlement and the figure quickly threw down their own weapon on the stone floor so it perfectly landed in a patch of moonlight.

“I’m here to see the Inquisitor,” a woman said from the darkness. “I didn’t want to interrupt your moment.”

In one sure, smooth movement, Cullen turned and drew his sword, pointing it toward the shadows. “Step out and reveal yourself now.”

She stepped forwards into the light, her palms facing forwards. Laura knew her face, and may not have been Fereldan but she still went down onto one knee.

“Your Majesty,” she said quietly. “It is an honour.”

“Get up, get up,” the Queen said. “And call me Fuchsia. I haven’t had anyone call me by my name in years, I’d like to get used to it again.”

“You,” Cullen said, in a soft exhalation of breath, his sword drooping to point at the ground. “I don’t – I haven’t seen…”

Fuchsia turned her attention to Cullen, and searched his face. Her blue eyes widened in recognition. She spoke in a low, soothing voice. “Cullen. We met before. At the Fereldan Circle. Let’s move on and discuss today, shall we?”

“Yes,” he said softly, but he still looked stunned. He sheathed his sword. “Of course. Shall we go down into the keep?”

“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here,” Fuchsia said, then shrugged. “Outside your inner circle, at least. I have a request.”

Laura bent to pick up Fuchsia’s dagger. Her own knife, she would have to find in the daylight. “Go on?”

She grinned. “It’s a long story, I don’t want to have to repeat myself. Leliana’s going to be needed for this. Anyone else you think should know, you should go get them too. Let’s make this a party!” 

 

*

 

They gathered in the most isolated part of Skyhold Laura could think of – not Leliana’s office, or the war room, but Laura’s own bedroom, with beautifully stained glass windows put in by the Qunari craftswomen. She volunteered to go gather the others while Cullen and Fuchsia waited but Cullen stood quickly and said, “You rest here, Inquisitor. I will go,” and he left before Laura could say another word.

Fuchsia sat behind Laura’s desk, legs crossed neatly at the knee, and watched him leave with a small frown. Then she arched an eyebrow at Laura.

“I truly am sorry for interrupting you,” she said. “Once I gathered you two were, well, initiating contact, I didn’t want to ruin the moment. But then you had to go and be all perceptive.”

Laura sat down on the edge of the bed. All her practice was for nothing; she had no idea what to say in a more stressful social situation. She was never going to manage in Halamshiral.

“Tell me about yourself,” Fuchsia said, all ease and confidence. “You’ve got one hell of a reputation.”

“What do you know of my reputation?”

She smiled again, bright enough to light up the room. “You’ve got a thing for blond ex-Templars. Of which, trust me, I understand and approve. You get results, like the Warden's army at Adamant. You’re bringing everyone together.”

“Not yet everyone.” Laura held up her hands, counting on her fingers. “Empress Celene, the Tevinter Imperium, the Qunari, the Nevarrans, the Antivans, the Dalish…”

“You should let the Dalish clans know you just listed them alongside Empress Celene. I think that’d get them on side pretty neatly.” Fuchsia stood up and started pacing around the room. The way she moved betrayed her origins: the stately poise of nobility, the fluid grace of a thief, the power of a Warden, the confidence of royalty. Laura shrank back on the bed as she continued, “You’ve already irritated the Crows, which means you’ll have the other half of Antiva on your side. They’ve got money. That’ll get the Nevarrans who aren’t charmed by your royal Seeker.”

Laura shook her head. “You’ve been spying on us.”

“I’ve had my ear to the ground about the Inquisition. If I was spying on you, I’d know the really important things, like how come you and the Commander are only just initiating contact after all these months.”

The door burst open and Leliana strode up two stairs at a time. If she had seemed happy before to see Sten, it paled in comparison to her reaction now: she pulled Fuchsia into a tight hug and buried her face against Fuchsia’s leather-clad shoulder. 

“It is so good to see you,” she said, and Fuchsia pushed her hood back, ruffling her fire-bright hair.

“Hey there, sister,” Fuchsia murmured against Leliana’s ear. “Good to see you too.”

The others filed in, those who Cullen had thought needed to be here: Cassandra bowed wordlessly with a searching look at Laura; Josephine’s greeting was impeccably polite, if ruffled; Varric strolled in and told her it was an honour to finally meet King Alistair’s ‘ball-and-chain’; Sten lurched to a halt within arm’s reach and stood there, towering over her, and said, “What is your wish, Kadan?”

Fuchsia threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down into an embrace. “Your Asala looks well,” she murmured. Her voice sounded thick with unshed tears.

Cassandra finished pulling spare chairs and cushions from the washcloset, and said, “Your Majesty, we must know how you entered the Keep without being detected.”

“I was detected,” Fuchsia said with a shrug, “by your Inquisitor. Plus, just call me Fuchsia.”

“We must know of any vulnerabilities to Skyhold,” she said stubbornly.

“Considering my husband is going to be visiting shortly, I would agree.”

Josephine, Cassandra, Leliana and Cullen all started talking at once: loud, insistent, and all of them fighting to be heard. Varric sidled over to Fuchsia’s side and murmured something to her, and in response she laughed, ducking her head in uncharacteristic shyness. It was frightening how Varric knew just what to say and do, whether to build someone up with confidence or make them blush and stammer.

“Okay,” Laura said, and cleared her throat. As one, her people fell quiet and looked to her. “Fuchsia, explain.”

Josephine held up her hand. “Apologies, Inquisitor, your Majesty. I must return to the party and begin some subtle preparations. People will notice our absence if I do not run interference of some kind.”

“Thank you,” Laura said as she left, and she gave a shining, golden curtsey before excusing herself. Fuchsia watched her go, then shucked off her leather jerkin, revealing a rough-hewn tunic in dark brown cotton. No one would suspect her of being Queenly, but the way she sat behind the desk was the way Laura sat upon her throne: holding court.

She spoke quietly, surely, of her quest to cure the Calling entirely, of travels in Tevinter, to Weisshaupt in the Anderfels, and places with names Laura could only hazily recall from excessively detailed lessons as a child. 

“I haven’t succeeded. Not yet. But I will,” she said gravely. “No Warden has lasted for longer than thirty-odd years, and that’s a stretch. That puts Ferelden in an uncomfortable position when both its monarchs go crazy and die in the Deep Roads. One Landsmeet a generation is enough for me.”

“And you have no heirs,” Leliana added.

“Not yet,” Fuchsia repeated with a faraway stare, a tension in her jaw. Then she smiled and continued her story. She had left for her quest when the Calling spread across Orlais and Ferelden, and there was no explanation she or Alistair could think of that could excuse her absence at such a critical time.

“So we didn’t explain it. We just had it mysterious, along with the other Wardens. But we figured the nobility would see Alistair’s calm about the whole thing and trust I’d be okay.”

Cassandra shifted restlessly. “Surely you could have told your people you were on a quest of importance?”

“I’m the Hero of Ferelden,” Fuchsia said without a shred of embarrassment. “I’m supposed to stick around, you know? And this wasn’t a quest for the country, not really. It’s for the Grey Wardens. Only now there’s this story that the Wardens sacrificed themselves fighting a demon army at Adamant” – she grimaced once, the only sign that she might know what had actually happened – “and I’ve been hearing rumours that the Queen Warden died there too.”

“Your Arls do not give the rumour any credence,” Leliana said. “I checked.”

“The people do, though.” She sighed. “So I need to return, but more, I need to return in a way where I’d get some respect back home.”

Laura snapped her fingers in sudden realisation. “Alistair comes here, you reunite in private, and you go back to Denerim together. Alistair shows that he’s brought you back, so he doesn’t get looked at as a King who let his Queen go wandering.”

Fuchsia snorted a laugh. “Given how he’s given succour to a cabal of rebel mages in my absence, we want to avoid me looking like I’m coming home to tell him off, too.”

“But why here in Skyhold?” Cassandra asked.

“It’s the story you’re going to tell,” Varric said with a wry smile. “Maker, say you’ll let me tell it for you.”

“My name’s Fuchsia,” she said in mock-innocence. “You don’t need to use such formalities.”

Leliana hid a smile behind her hand. “I didn’t know your ego could actually get bigger, my dear Fuchsia.”

“It was probable,” Sten muttered, “and far from impossible.”

Laura cleared her throat. “So you want me to announce you’ve been on a big mission for the Inquisition, right? That’s why you were gone, and this secret mission was really successful so now you’re returning home in triumph.”

“Gotcha,” Fuchsia said, pointing a dirt-rimed finger at her. “And in return, you get all the intelligence I’ve gathered outside Orlesian borders, a couple of nice knickknacks I picked up along the way, and the eternal gratitude of the Hero of Ferelden.”

“It would make the common Fereldan very gracious,” Leliana said quietly. “That you have brought her back to her people.”

Of course Laura would never dream of saying no, but Fuchsia did not know that, and though she was shy, she still knew how to negotiate. She made a show of mulling it over, and started to shake her head.

“I don’t like lying to your people,” she said softly, looking at the floor. “To anyone. And if the falsehood gets out it ruins my credibility. So. I need Fereldan troops. Heavy infantry and cavalry, and a mabari trainer.”

Fuchsia leant back in her chair – in Laura’s chair – and looked at her with hooded eyes and a calculating smile. “That’s totally unacceptable; I must give you more. Heavy infantry, cavalry, a mabari trainer, and a mage battalion. Any of our rebels and apostates who want to fight, you must take them too.”

The Chantry were deeply disapproving of Alistair’s generosity. They were deeply disapproving of Laura’s alliance with the Templars; she wondered what they would think of her taking on Fuchsia’s castaways.

“Deal,” she said, and went over to shake Fuchsia’s hand.

“Alistair will be here in two days,” Fuchsia said. “Your diplomat had better get ready on those preparations.”

 

*

 

Laura had little to do above her normal duties. She watched Josephine rush around in a state, but the real sufferers were the cooks, the stewards, and the cleaners of the Keep. Two large functions in three days was a tall order, and Laura made sure to have a word with Ser Morris to give them a pay bonus and the promise of time off after the festivities had drawn to a close.

She gave Fuchsia a tour, and had almost hoped to be able to spend time with her but of course Fuchsia was seeing all of her old friends. She ensconced herself with Leliana for hours, she walked the battlements with Sten and brought out a lively animation in him that Laura did not think was possible. She shrieked her excitement with Dagna and managed to talk just as fast. She even sat down with Cullen in his office in a closed-door meeting that left Fuchsia smiling, Cullen serious and thoughtful but with a lightness to his step Laura had not seen since Haven was attacked.

If it had just been them, it would have been bearable, but she did not stop there: she played drinking games with Iron Bull, played cards with Varric and cheated most charmingly, flirted with Dorian, and teamed up with Sera to terrorise half the Inquisition with their combined talent for pranks.

Laura resorted to playing chess with herself in the herb garden, and tried not to jump when a shadow fell across the board.

“Really, my dear,” Vivienne drawled, “please do not tell me you are sulking.”

“I’m not sulking,” Laura said, and sunk back in her chair.

“At least you do what you are told, I suppose.” Vivienne sat prettily in the chair opposite and ignored the board entirely. “The poor girl misses her husband and is excited to be going home, you can’t fault her being enthusiastic.”

“I find no fault with the Queen Warden,” Laura said carefully. It was her fault she found Fuchsia so irritating. It was her fault.

“If you want to get to know her,” Vivienne said while she examined her nails, “perhaps you should actually ask her.”

“I have,” Laura grumbled.

“No, you haven’t, darling. You’ve mooned about and made some vague implications but you haven’t said, ‘Fuchsia, darling, come join me for a thrilling game of chess’. She’ll say yes, you know.”

Laura forced herself to straighten her shoulders from their sulky hunch.

“I know you are afraid of people saying yes to you,” Vivienne continued. “Really, we must solve this shy, retiring nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Laura snarled.

“And the testiness is not a solution.” Vivenne arched her perfect eyebrows. “Go on, my dear. Go find her and invite her to do something.”

Laura sighed. “You won’t leave me alone until I do, will you?”

Vivienne looked at her down her nose. “Since when does the Inquisition harbour quitters?”

“Fine.” Laura pushed to her feet, well aware she was still acting like she was sulking. She searched around the Keep: not an easy task considering Fuchsia was going incognito until King Alistair arrived in the evening. When she paused by the stables to gather her thoughts and corral her irritation, she heard Fuchsia’s voice, and Blackwall’s.

“You won’t tell them?”

“Don’t tell anyone I said this, but for a Queen I don’t care much for history. It’s the future I try to think about.”

They were in the hayloft. Laura started towards the ladder and slowed when she realised she had no idea what they were talking about.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Blackwall murmured. Laura could not tell whether he was making a joke or being genuine.

“You’re one of us, Blackwall,” Fuchsia said softly. “No matter what. I promise.”

Blackwall did not respond. Someone started rustling around, and disturbed hay drifted through the wooden slats above. Laura stepped backwards and started in towards the barn as if she were only just arriving, and looked up to see Fuchsia sliding down the ladder.

“I was hoping to find you,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“Warden stuff,” she said with a relaxed smile. She looked up at the hayloft. “Can you do one of a flying dog by tonight?”

Blackwalls’ head popped up into view, wearing a quizzical expression. “I will do my best, your Majesty.” He glanced at Laura and nodded. “Your Worship.”

She nodded to him. She liked him: he never made her feel like she had to be more than she was. The idea that he might be keeping things from her made her stomach lurch.

Fuchsia linked her arm around Laura’s elbow. “So. Where do you want to take me?”

“Do you like chess?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I like cheating at chess?”

Laura resisted the urge to pull her arm free. “Well, I only play honest games. So come up to my room for tea.”

“Delightful,” Fuchsia said with a bland smile.

Laura pulled her along by her arm. “If you don’t want to, just say.” 

“If you have a problem with me,” Fuchsia murmured in her ear, sweet smiles for the passersby, “then just say.”

They were far too exposed. Laura sent a runner to bring refreshments to her room, and took Fuchsia up. In the sunlight, the Qunari-crafted windows shone with jewelled brilliance, all hard lines, scarlet and gold light scattered across the floor.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” Laura said woodenly.

“Bullshit,” Fuchsia said, and pushed open the windows. Cold air swirled past Laura’s legs and the light streamed in white and unbroken. She leant against the balcony railing and breathed in deeply through her nose. “Come over here.”

“No,” Laura said, and sat down on the bed. “You swan in here and steal all of my people and all of them like you and do whatever you say. I’m not going to just roll over for you.”

Fuchsia turned back with raised eyebrows. The sunlight turned her hair into gold, but her eyes were shadowed and dark. “Go on?”

“That’s it.” Laura shifted restlessly on the bed. “You make fun of me and make all these asides about Cullen and you like making me uncomfortable and that’s cruel. And you send me your friend who doesn’t even want to help me so I make a fool of myself and you could have just come with him and helped us make the alliance.”

With deliberate care, Fuchsia came in, closed the doors, and sat on the bed next to Laura. “That’s not everything, though.”

Laura really wanted to shove at her shoulder, but she didn’t. She shook her head. “That’s everything.”

“No.” Fuchsia’s voice was smooth and soft. As if she were talking to a startled horse. “What’s really going on?”

“I hate that you know how to do everything and talk to everyone and I have to be Inquisitor and I have no idea how to make friends with anyone,” Laura snapped, and she was angry, she really was, but her body rebelled and she burst into tears.

The kitchen maid knocked on the door. Fuchsia patted Laura’s shoulder and got up from the bed. Laura heard murmured words, a door open and close, but she kept her face buried in her hands and tried to wipe her face dry.

“Sweetheart,” Fuchsia said warmly. “I’m sorry. Drink your tea.”

Laura did as she was told and drank the tea. She could taste rosehips, raspberry leaf and honey. She felt calmer afterwards. Fuchsia stayed quiet the whole time, drinking tea with delicate grace.

“In ten years’ time, when the next poor sap gets hit with whatever new crisis the Maker dreams up – then, you’ll meet that poor sap and they’ll be horribly jealous of you because you’ve done your part. You’ve sorted it out, and you’ve succeeded and learned and you’re comfortable with yourself. And they’ll kind of hate you, and you’ll want to help, but you won’t want to stop them from doing it themselves. You won’t be the one meant to save Thedas that time.”

Laura sat and listened. She felt herself smirk. “Maybe I’ll save Thedas properly and we’ll have more than ten years between crises.”

“Ouch,” Fuchsia said, with her hand over her heart. “I said the same thing to Hawke, and he liked it.”

“You know Hawke too,” Laura said slowly.

Fuchsia shrugged a perfect shoulder. “We crossed paths a month ago, him heading towards the Anderfels, me going the other way. We had a chat about all this.”

Of course she had. Of course Hawke had listened to her, had sat and had these important conversations with her, when he’d had a few awkward silences with Laura and then escaped as soon as possible after Adamant.

Fuchsia had moved on without her. “Look, I’m sorry about interrupting you and Cullen.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay.” She shrugged equably. “What do you want to talk about?”

That was easy. “The Qunari alliance. How do I get Ataashashaad to agree? And don’t say stop the Blight, or anything else _you_ did to get him to like you.”

She grinned. “I like you feisty. Stick with that.”

“He hasn’t said yes yet.”

“You haven’t spoken to him properly since I’ve got here. You got distracted by me.” There was a hint of reproach in her voice. “Not that I blame you. I am brilliant.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Will he say yes?”

“You should ask him.” Fuchsia threw a scone at her: Laura caught it without spilling a crumb. “Have some faith in yourself. Everyone else does.”

The words struck her dumb. A small, quiet, still place inside herself rang out like Fuchsia had hit a bell. She felt oddly warm. She nodded and ate the scone.

 

*

 

“Pennant sighted!”

Laura closed her balcony doors once she heard the scout’s call. “He’s here.”

“I know that,” Fuchsia snapped. She took a deep, shaking breath. “We’ve not seen each other for over a year. Maker, I’ve missed him. And it was my idea for me to go. I don’t want him to be mad.”

“Your hair’s come out,” Laura said. “Let me fix it.”

She stood still and stopped talking, which was the only reason Laura had said anything. Fuchsia’s hair was already perfect, braided and coiled into a gleaming crown. Twin drop sapphires twinkled in her ears, matching an elegant necklace that Laura had been gifted by one of Cassandra’s distant cousins. She wore not an Orlesian ballgown, but silk and leather embroidered together in rich riding gear. She looked Queenly yet practical. She was beautiful.

“There,” Laura said, after brushing her fingertips over Fuchsia’s hair. “You’re ready. Let’s go down.”

She held Fuchsia’s hand while she led her downstairs. She was sweaty and trembling. Laura had not imagined that she would ever see Fuchsia so undone like this.

Beyond the door at the bottom of the stairs there were trumpets announcing the arrival of royalty. Fuchsia slapped her hand against the wood, holding it closed.

“Promise me something,” she said. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright.

“You’re going to make us late.” Laura patted her shoulder. “Come on.”

“Promise me you’ll sort it out with Cullen.” She took Laura’s hand. “Don’t waste a second. Trust me.”

“I can’t promise that,” she whispered. “What if he doesn’t want to?”

“Are you kidding, he loves you,” Fuchsia said, and her smile was crooked and mischievous. She pulled the door open and said, “Inquisitor first, right?”

“You’re really mean,” Laura hissed without heat, and even over the roar of the trumpets she could hear Fuchsia cackle to herself. She marched out to the gathered crowd: her people, visiting dignitaries, merchants, and civilian pilgrims holding wide-eyed babies and children up to see the column of approaching figures.

“Distinguished guests and members of the Inquisition,” Laura called out, and the crowd hushed. “I am overjoyed to announce the return of a woman who has been fulfilling most vital duties for the Inquisition, and for Andraste. Her success means that she reunites with King Alistair Theirin. Please welcome the return of Queen Fuchsia Cousland Theirin.”

Fuchsia barrelled through the doorway and launched herself into her husband’s arms. He gripped her tightly and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. They exchanged words too quiet for the cheers of the crowds: Fereldan accents shouting _Hero, Hero, Hero._

Laura clasped her hands tightly behind her back. Fuchsia and King Alistair only had eyes for each other. It made Laura’s heart ache, but it also made her smile.

“Bring out the banquet!” she shouted, and her people cheered.

 

*

 

She couldn’t find Cullen in the Great Hall. She checked the war room, Cullen’s office, and then the library, and only managed to find the Iron Bull backing Dorian up against one of the giant bookshelves.

“Stop attacking him,” she said before she realised that really wasn’t what was going on. She looked away, mortified. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me.”

“There’s plenty enough of the Bull to share,” the Bull said, laughing in a way that seemed designed to make one’s stomach flutter.

“Apologies, my dear friend,” Dorian said, and giggled drunkenly, “but I do not share. Bull. Do continue, will you?”

“I’m the one who gives the orders around here,” the Bull growled, and Laura fled back downstairs, her heart pounding. She went to the garden to clear her head and calm down: it was much quieter, with the festivities spilling out into the courtyard rather than the garden. She sat down on the bench and breathed in the cool mountain air.

The door to the chapel opened; Alistair and Fuchsia spilled out, holding each other’s hands.

“You know,” Laura said peevishly, “I think I might make some sort of Inquisitorial decree to remind everyone around here that bedrooms exist. Also, what you just did was heresy.”

Fuchsia burst out laughing. Alistair elbowed her in the ribs.

“What my dear wife is trying to say, is we were praying. Actual praying,” he added when Laura frowned. “You have a very intimidating face, Your Worship. Makes me rather pity the Venatori.”

After taking a deep breath Fuchsia stopped laughing. “We were lighting candles for the Wardens.”

“I still can’t believe they did all that.” Alistair sat down on the bench next to Laura. Up close, his fair hair was starting to grey at the temples. Wardens died young, she reminded herself. He continued speaking. “Of course, they didn’t tell me about any of it. I figured it was just my Calling coming a bit earlier than I’d hoped. I rather thought I’d just tough it out for as long as possible.”

“A _bit_ earlier,” Fuchsia muttered, standing in front of him. She nudged his knees with her own and shuffled to stand between his legs, picking up his hands in her own. “They knew that you would have stopped them. That magister knew, so he must have told them not to tell you.”

Alistair shrugged. He turned to Laura. “We’ve been discussing.”

Fuchsia tugged on his hands. “Arguing.”

“Deliberating.”

“Arguing,” she said again with a smirk.

“Debating?”

“Arguing,” Fuchsia said, and flicked his forehead with her fingertips.

Alistair grinned. “As the lady says. We’re at an impasse, so we figure it should be in the hands of the Inquisitor.”

Laura stilled. “I’m not a Warden.”

“But you’re good at sorting out…complex situations,” Alistair said. “And your people helped flush out Venatori agents in my city. I trust your judgement.”

She nodded, and kept the shock from her face. “What are you trying to decide on?”

“The fate of the Wardens,” Alistair said. “Whether or not we should have a hand in it.”

“The Wardens have been doing their thing for thousands of years,” Fuchsia said. “They’ll work it out, they’ll rebuild. We need to focus on curing the Calling and on ruling Ferelden. We don’t owe the Wardens any more of our time than that.”

“There are precious few Wardens in Weisshaupt,” Alistair said, in the easy rhythm of a response that told Laura this was a discussion they had been having back and forth for some time. “Historically, when Wardens get pinched like that, they don’t cope well. Adamant, case in point. We two should intervene and help the Wardens rebuild. We should help shape the culture so they can deal with their fear in a way that doesn’t involve accidentally summoning a demon army for one of the originators of the Blight.”

Fuchsia hesitated, as if she was going to say something further. But she shook her head and looked to Laura. “That’s the crux of it. Any thoughts?”

She was quiet for a moment. Her mind worked quickly. “I’ll send some of my agents, armed with your research, to investigate the Calling. Mages might be able to understand the problem where you could not. You both return to Denerim and focus on shoring up your defences.”

“Hah, I’m right,” Fuchsia said, and kicked Alistair’s foot.

Alistair winced. “Steel-capped toes!”

“And then,” Laura continued forcefully, “you make sure your own Fereldan army is equipped to fight Darkspawn. Not as Wardens, but as soldiers who can assist the Wardens if, and when, another Blight occurs. That way when the Wardens need new recruits, they have a new resource to draw from: a group of trained men and women who respect the work they do and, most importantly, know that people other than Wardens are committed to helping them.”

“That’s my girl,” Fuchsia murmured with a delighted smile.

“And nothing says we can’t recruit promising candidates ourselves,” Alistair added. “We were always alone – not just during the Blight, but afterwards, too. We don’t have to be. We can have other Wardens around.”

“By the way,” Fuchsia said with a sly smile. “I spotted something out of the chapel’s windows. I spotted a certain ex-Templar going up to your bedroom.”

Laura stood up uncertainly.

“She doesn’t mean me,” Alistair said in a stage whisper. “I wouldn’t presume. My wife would kill me.”

“Only if I wasn’t invited, dear,” she said, and patted his knee. “Laura, what are you waiting for?”

She turned and ran back into the Great Hall, sliding past merrymakers and dancers with a distracted smile, a momentary wave. She reached her door and slipped into the stairwell and took the stairs two at a time.

She met Cullen halfway up. He smiled as soon as he saw her, then looked away with a flush.

“Ah, Inquisitor, I had just been looking for you. You weren’t at the party, so…”

He was on the step above her, but she could still reach: she went on her tiptoes and kissed him. His mouth was very soft. His lips parted with a shocked breath and his arms encircled her shoulders. His hands found her neck, her sides. She slid her fingers into his hair.

He pulled away first. His lips were kissed-hard pink and he licked them before he spoke. “My lady. This evening, when I saw the King and Queen reunited with each other, I…I could not bear waiting any longer. I do not wish for us to be parted like they have been.”

She kissed him again. He tasted of pastries and butter and peaches, and his hair curled enticingly around her fingers. It smelled of soap and leather. He was beautiful.

 

*

 

Fuchsia and Alistair left with an honour guard and a fanfare of trumpets. Laura waved them off, then went to Cullen’s office and kissed him as he leant her against his desk. She could never get enough of him.

“I was told by my runners that Ataashashaad would like to see you,” he said, holding her face between his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “I do not want you to miss you for one minute, but I suppose you shall have to go.”

“I’ll come back and find you,” she said, smiling against his mouth.

“I shall await your return.” He kissed her forehead, and let her go.

She found Ataashashaad at the top of the ramparts, staring at the mountains. He had with him a large scroll, which he handed to Laura without a word.

She stood next to him and unrolled the parchment. It was a binding legal document drawn up and written in Josephine’s excellent penmanship: a writ of mutual protection. An alliance.

She read it through. At the end, Ataashashaad had marked it in Qunari script. There was a space for Laura’s signature beside it.

“Why?” she said softly, running her hands over the gilt edging.

“Because you are basalit-an, and you need this alliance. As do the Qunari.”

“Why now?”

He glanced back at her. “Because you convinced me, Inquisitor. Not the Warden. Her presence would overshadow your achievement. I present to you your prize, Inquisitor. When you stand against the Magister Corypheus, you will do so with the might of the Qun behind you.”

Something in his outstretched hand glinted in the morning light. It was a quill already dipped in dark green ink. She took it, and signed in the space he had left for her. A historic moment.

“I must go. I will take the Genaari with me. Out of respect for your leadership I will let the shokrakar remain among the living.”

“I’ll pass that along,” she said. She held out her hand and waited until he took it; she clasped it in friendship and respect. “It was good meeting you, Ataashashaad.”

“Yes,” he said, and squeezed her hand. 

She released a breath she did not realise she had been holding. “I’m going to go take this back to Josephine.”

He nodded, and turned back to face the sun. She headed towards the Great Hall. The scroll weighed heavy in her hands but her heart was light.


End file.
